


The Crow - Buckynat

by amyracecar



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Crow (1994), The Crow - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 17:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyracecar/pseuds/amyracecar
Summary: A retelling of The Crow (comic by James O’Barr, also a 1994 movie) with Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanov.





	1. Chapter 1

**_People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can’t rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right._**

The last thing Bucky heard was the echoing screams of his lover. He never heard the bone-crushing thud of his body hitting the concrete. He never heard the crack of his skull on impact. All that mattered was the helplessness that suffused him as he plummeted, the sharp pain in Nat’s cries retreating from the window he’d been thrown from. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t-…

***

Steve rushed forward, heart racing, unconscious words of denial on his lips. Bucky and Natasha had to be okay. Arms encircled him, pulling him back as he tried to get to the cart before him and the body upon it covered with a sheet.

“Steve, come on, no,” Sam choked out, his attempts to soothe his friend weakened by his own grief and anger. “Stop, man, you don’t need to see that.”

But they both rushed forward as another cart was brought through, this one surrounded by emergency personnel and with a flash of red hair visible, matted down with blood.

“Nat,” Steve breathed as he shoved past the EMT, Sam right behind him, adding, “Nat please be okay…”

Face pale beneath the garish slashes of blood, Natasha tried to lift a trembling hand to Sam before being restrained by the man trying to cover her mouth and nose with a respirator. She dodged, turning her head to give Steve a wild look of desperation that echoed in his heart.

“J-James,” she managed to get out before the respirator was placed over her face once more and she was whisked away into the waiting ambulance.

Steve was frozen to the spot, his entire world spinning at the end of a fraying string. Sam pulled him close and Steve found himself clinging to his friend, silent tears pouring down both their cheeks. Deep, underlying the pain was a seed of seething anger, pure hatred and malice for whatever doomed villain had dared to do this to two of his best friends the night before their wedding.

As he was wont to do, Sam voiced exactly what Steve was feeling, “We are gonna find who did this, Steve. They’re going to pay.”

***

Black wings sliced through the night one year later, shining eyes scanning the rows of headstones below. Cold rain pelted the crow as it searched out its destination. A current of cool air lifted the sleek wings, and the crow spied the correct stone jutting from the ground, identical to the one next to it, save for the names.

_Natalia Romanova. James Buchanan Barnes._

The second one was slicked with condensation as the crow landed on it, its spindle toes grasping for purchase. Dark deepened, clouds obscuring the moon, rain falling around the monument like curtains around a bed. The crow pecked at the grave marker, tapping as if begging entrance. But the crow rapped at the stone for an opening not to be entered, but exited. Rain pattered at the ground as it bulged, the tapping of sharp beak on granite turning manic as grass split like rent skin.

From the rupture in the ground, Bucky burst forth, gasping in a starved breath, fingers of both flesh and metal slicing through muddied earth, scrabbling for a handhold as he dragged himself from his ruptured resting place. His legs finally freed, Bucky fell to the ground, rain swirling rivulets in the dirt coating his body. Shaking mightily, Bucky felt the air upon his skin and the rage in his soul bubbled up his throat and poured from his lips in a primal cry of rebirth.

Black beaded eyes watched the form, feathers rustling as the crow took the measure of the soul he’d brought back. Yes. Justice would come.


	2. Chapter 2

** _A building gets torched, all that is left is ashes. I used to think that was true about everything, families, friends, feelings. But now I know that sometimes, if love proves real, two people who are meant to be together… nothing can keep them apart._ **

Bone-deep cold bit at Bucky, but what truly held him immobilized in the muddied graveyard was memory. Blinded to the rain around him, he saw flashes of warmth, of happiness. Natasha pressed tightly against him, her smile filling his heart with a joy so unfamiliar and welcome. Her fingers stroking along his bare skin, their bodies entwined. The taste of her skin warmed his pale lips, the recollection of her arching back as he trailed kisses down her spine suffusing his body with a new strength.

Pulling himself to his feet, he blindly followed the soft fluttering of inky wings ahead of him, eyes still shrouded from reality with shutters of memory. Natasha following him with a questioning smile to the attic, the tears that fell when he turned to her with a simple band of gold, the small diamond atop it glittering with promise. The heat of their sweat-slicked bodies tumbling across the sheets after her gleefully whispered acquiescence. Soft echos of laughter as she flipped through bridal magazines, denouncing them all.

Feeling began to seep back into Bucky as he stumbled, and he tugged the burial clothing from his all too mobile flesh, seeing once more the light in Natasha’s eyes when she found the dress. The dress. Natasha in the dress. The pure burst of love he’d felt in his chest as he saw her in the dress. Bucky thanked god that Natasha wasn’t one for tradition, that he’d been allowed that one glimpse of her in the dress she would only wear once.

The sweeping sound of wings beating at the air slowed and became hollow, and Bucky found himself inside the ruined shell of the small loft he’d shared with his lover. The assault of memory battered his skull once more, all happy memories tainted, darkened. His sprint up the stairs at the ringing screams coming from his door, the racing panic lighting in his veins as he saw his door hanging open. A brief, gutting moment of confusion as he saw his Natasha on the ground, her body immobilized by the heavier one atop it, the bright, shining red marring her body. So much red. Smell of copper as instinct overtook Bucky, his only desire to protect the woman he loved.

Bucky fell to his knees, broken glass cutting into the black, earth-smeared pants he still wore. Gunfire. Sharp pain, cutting into his back, bullets driving through his rib cage, slashing through his lungs, bursting through his chest to plant themselves into his outstretched arm. Still he reached for the man atop Natasha. Another shot, this one closer, his ears deafened, the bullet burrowing into the heart that was at that moment ripping in two, slicing through the pain and dimming his senses.

Toppling forward in the dark loft, Bucky’s fist slammed into the dusty floor, glass embedding itself in his knuckles as Bucky heard Natasha’s screams fading once more, saw his narrowing vision of the window he’d been pitched from fading to nothingness. Choking on pain, Bucky toppled to the side, unable to process the emotions raging through him. The bird that had led him home landed on the dirty floor before his eyes, cocking hits head and looking at his hand. Slowly raising his trembling arm, he saw the glass protruding from his skin.

Shakily, he moved his metal arm, plucking the glass from his skin, glad to have something to think of other than loss, hurt, anger, hopelessness. His shaking stilled though, as the cuts in his knuckles closed, healing themselves. The world stilled as he took in the unmarred skin of his hand, the implications of this sinking in. The crow called out a croaking sound of triumph, and Bucky looked up at it in wonder. The bird ruffled its feathers, then flew to the other side of the room.

Heaving himself to his knees, Bucky saw the bird land on a toppled piece of furniture. A glinting mirror lay next to it, makeup scattered across the filthy floor. Natasha’s dressing table. His eyes fell closed as he once more saw her sitting there, smiling at him in the mirror as he took the harlequin mask that hung from the corner of the mirror and placed it over his face, teasing her. Natasha turning with a laugh, placing a kiss to the lips of the mask. A sharp rapping sound broke through the memory and Bucky opened his eyes.

The mask. The crow pecked at it, then turned to him. Somehow Bucky found himself moving across the floor, saw his hand distantly as it lifted the mask once more. Metal fingers closed around the mask, lifting it to his face, and through the eyes of the mask he saw her face, her smile, the beauty of the woman who’d been his lover and his redemption. A roar of sorrow poured from him, and the metal hand closed, fracturing the mask, then hurling the broken pieces across the room.

Blindly, Bucky felt himself search through the rubble, his mind a sharp abstract of longing, pain, and a seething hatred, a soul-deep demand for retribution. His hands found the camouflage grease paint they’d used for missions, and he wrenched it open. White smeared across his face, then black, the broken mask now permanent upon his face, the memory of Natasha carried with him. As he spread the black across his lips, he felt her kiss. Heaving a hard breath, Bucky dragged himself to his feet and to the wardrobe across the room. The crow watched him, cooing its approval in a raspy voice.

Clothes still hung in the wardrobe and Bucky grit his teeth as he saw the tux, still in its plastic bag. The crow gave a sound of encouragement and Bucky shook the memory away, his mind now filled with a familiar, comforting drive. The mission. That was all that mattered. Dragging out the black uniform of the Winter Soldier, he let the drowning pain fall away. He knew now why he was back. He would avenge his Natasha. He would make every single one of the men that touched her know the pain he knew. They would know death.

***

Sam watched Steve from across the gym, the music flowing through the headphones he wore unable to block out the grunts and invectives emitting from his friend as he pounded the swinging bag before him. Sam felt a small echo of the same rage in his heart, but it was swallowed up by a deep sorrow.

One year. It has been one full year since Nat and Bucky had been taken from them. He should be celebrating. They should be planning an anniversary party for the couple for the next day. A year ago he should’ve been picking Bucky up for the bachelor party he’d insisted he didn’t want, not sitting in a hospital watching Natasha’s life be ripped slowly from her, as she begged to join her James once more. They should’ve spent the last year watching their friends finally find the happiness they deserved, not searching, digging, using every resource Stark could offer to try and find the bastards that took Bucky and Natasha from them.

Sam shook his head as Steve burst yet another bag, and looked away from the sweat-sheened blonde to the files on the table before him. There had to be something they’d missed. Some clue. Anything that could point them in the right direction.

Hearing Steve once more landing punishing blows on a new bag, Sam sighed. Bucky and Nat deserved so much more. He wished he could at least give them justice. They should at least have that.

***

Brock Rumlow knew his place. He knew the hierarchy of Hydra, and he knew that shit flows downhill. He was used to Crossbones being the one that had to get his hands dirty so that the bosses didn’t have to. Didn’t mean he was happy with it.

Trudging through a dark alley, dodging bums and dealers… this wasn’t how he wanted to spend his night. With a flash, he struck a match, the acrid scent of sulfur drifting up, followed closely by the unexpected smell of freshly turned earth. Brows drawing together, he looked up, then stumbled back at the sight of the figure clad in black before him, light glinting off a shining arm onto a painted face. Quickly gathering himself, Rumlow reached down to place a hand over the hilt of the knife at his waist. He didn’t have time for some crazed junkie, and he couldn’t afford the noise of a gunfight.

“The hell are you supposed to be?” he sneered at the silent figure.

“A ghost,” the figure replied, striding forward, “A memory.”

Rumlow’s lip curled and he drew the knife, holding it in a guard position, snarling, “Never was a fan of ghost stories, buddy.”

“I’m not your buddy,” the man retorted, then sped forward.

Adrenaline pulsed through Rumlow’s veins as he quickly dodged the strike, turning and planting his blade between the ribs of the dark figure. A cry poured from the man, and Rumlow laughed victoriously, stepping away as the man, crumpled over.

But his surge of triumph faded as the man’s cries turned to manic laughter. He straightened, and Rumlow felt his eyes widen and his heart race as the man pulled the blade from his side, his crazed laugh growing louder.

“What the fuck…” Rumlow heard his own voice, but felt nothing as he saw the wound in the man’s ribs close as though it were a video run in reverse.

Before he knew it, the man sped forward, pinning him against the wall, the raised blade poised to be driven down into Rumlow’s chest.

“I’ll tell you what the fuck,” the man ground out, his mirth gone, replaced with a radiating anger. “One year ago. Black Widow. Winter Soldier.”

Rumlow’s heart stilled and the light across the painted face suddenly made sense.

“You,” he whispered. “You? But…”

He felt his hands scrabbling at the metal hand that held him still, and the familiar eyes glanced down, seeing the engagement ring sitting snugly on Rumlow’s pinky. Rumlow had always liked trophies. Today he cursed himself for that. Cold fingers left his neck and latched around his wrist.

“I-I didn’t-” Rumlow sputtered, but was cut off by a scream as the blade sliced his finger from his hand.

Rumlow felt his body slide down the bricks at his back, his eyes blearily watching the dark figure take the shining ring from the severed finger. He tried to push himself up, to run, escape the madness that had to be gripping him to see the man he’d thrown from a window a year before, the man who’s brains he’d seen splashed across pavement standing before him again.

But once more, the man was too fast for him. Again he was dangling from a metal arm, a bloodied knife at his sternum. He tried to find words, struggled to bargain for his life with the specter of death. But the words fell on deaf ears. Rumlow’s eyes widened in terror as the knife rose, then quickly plummeted. Pain blossomed in his chest, the hilt protruding from it still as the man dropped him. Hot blood steamed in the cold darkness as Rumlow’s vision blurred on the figure slipping into the misty night, Rumlow’s phone in his hand, and the ring flashing a goodbye from its place on the metal hand’s smallest finger.


End file.
